


And the Honeycomb Will Taste Sweeter Coming From My Hand

by florencedrunk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU where everything is the same but there are rings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ends Post-The Winter Soldier, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson in Chapter 2, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Romani Bucky Barnes, Starts Pre-The First Avengers, Suicidal Thoughts, Wanda is not really mcu!Wanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-10-25 02:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florencedrunk/pseuds/florencedrunk
Summary: "I have something for you," Bucky says, taking a small box from his pocket."What is it?" Steve asks."Just open it."Steve does so, and—"A ring?" he asks. "Why are you giving me a ring?"A rather angsty take onthis prompt.





	1. Chapter 1

Bucky is leaving, and Steve doesn't know how to feel about it. Or rather, he's feeling so many things he doesn't know how to make sense of it all.

He looks at his best friend, wearing that uniform that makes him look like one of those fancy actors in the pictures, and it's like a hundred voices are screaming at him: pride roars in approval, thrill buzzes under his skin, sorrow squeezes his heart in its grip. And there are smaller voices, too — whispers, sly and slithering: envy, for all that Bucky is and he isn't; anger, so much anger, wrapped around his ankle like an iron ball; worry, like a worm, eating him from the inside.

But then Bucky smiles that smile of his, and it all goes away. Steve's eyes trace the shape of his lips, and then of his jaw, his cheekbones, his brow. He commits that face to memory, and wonders how many times he'll find it staring back at him from the page.

"I have something for you," Bucky says, taking a small box from his pocket.

"What is it?" Steve asks.

"Just open it."

Steve does so, and—

"A ring?" he asks. "Why are you giving me a ring?"

"It was my dad's," Bucky explains. "I'm keeping my ma's, but have no idea of what to do with that one, so..."

"So, you're giving it to me?"

"Who else would I give it to?"

"I can't take your dad's ring, Bucky."

"Why not?"

 _Because it's a ring,_ Steve wants to answer. _Because it's a ring and it's from you and I don't want it — not like this._

"I just can't," he says, instead.

"That's a pity, 'cause you have to," Bucky says. "Just take it, okay? Keep it in a drawer. Pawn it off if you need money to eat, or whatever. I just want to know it's safe."

"Buck—"

"Stevie, I literally have no one else to give it to. Take it, or I swear to God I'll make you swallow it."

"Alright, Jesus," he says, closing the box again — it weighs heavier than it should, for some reason.

 

* * *

 

_You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.  
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give._

 

* * *

 

At night, Camp McCoy was quiet in a way Brooklyn could never be. Lying on his cot with his eyes closed, Bucky could even hear the crickets singing in the distance and nothing more. As he drifted into sleep, his right hand found its way to his left one, and to the ring — his ma's ring, the one he'd been wearing since she died, the one whose twin lay at the bottom of a drawer back home.

His mind wandered back in time until he found himself before a woman with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes. Sarah Rogers spoke, and her voice echoed with a story he thought he'd forgotten — the story of an oath: one her parents swore to one another, like her grandparents did before them, like she and her husband did barely a year before Steve was born.

 _I could do it,_ he thought. _And he would never know._

Two weeks later, he looks out of the small circular window of the plane. As the lights of London appear from under the mist, he feels stupid giving his silent promise so much importance, but he can't help himself. He looks at his ring and allows himself to hope, for just one moment, that there is the slightest chance that Steve might be doing the same.

 

* * *

 

"You'll have to take that off, son," Dr. Erskine says, pointing at Steve's right hand. "You don't want to ruin it, I imagine."

"No, I don't," he says, sliding the ring off his finger.

"I'll keep it safe for you, don't worry."

The cell closes around him, and a thousand needles push into his flesh. Steve feels every single one of them, and the bright blue liquid rushing through his veins, burning through muscles and bones like a fire that erases all that isn't pain. He screams, and the sound fills his head, thumping like a hammer against the inside of his skull. Then, silence.

He stumbles out of the pod. Everyone is looking at him. An explosion. Someone shoots. Someone screams. Erskine's dead — no, he's dying. In the last moments of his life, he points at Steve's heart. Steve runs.

 

* * *

 

Be it night or day, the battlefield is chaotic in a way Brooklyn could never be. But in those short intervals when bombs aren't exploding, people aren't dying, and the world doesn't look like it's ending, Bucky and the other soldiers get caught in small moments of almost-normalcy.

"You got anyone waiting for you back home, Jones?" Dugan asks one night. They're sitting around a fire, yellow-orange-red flames illuminating their faces, showing only details of who they are. If Bucky tries very hard, he can convince himself they're camping. He hates camping.

"Just my mom and sister," Jones says. "You?"

"Dolores," Dugan replies, his whole face lighting up as he says the name. "Prettiest thing I know."

There are a few seconds of silence in which all that can be heard is the crackling of the flames as they lick the wood away.

"What about you, Sarge?" Dugan asks, then.

"I have no one," he replies, still staring at the fire. "Not really."

"C'mon," the other man says. "What's with that ring you keep fiddlin' with?"

"It's nothing," Bucky replies, all too quickly, hiding his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Just a friend."

"What? That's all you gonna say? Afraid we might steal her?"

Bucky snorts. "You're welcome to try," he says. "Careful, though — she's got a temper."

 

* * *

 

"We found this in the doctor's coat," Peggy says, handing him the ring. It looks a lot smaller than it did before. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, why shouldn't I?" he says. "Senator Brandt already offered me a job, so..."

"Good luck, then," she says, and starts walking away.

"Peggy," he calls. The woman turns to face him. "The serum was supposed to take away all my illnesses, right? Everything that was wrong with me?"

"It was, and it did. Didn't it?"

Steve thinks. It took him a while to understand what was wrong with his eyes, and then he realised that, for the first time in his life, nothing was — and the same with his ears. At first, it was like being trapped under a ringing bell, or looking straight into the sun: bright colours he never knew existed exploding from all sides, brand new sounds shaking the world like an earthquake. No more ache in his bones, no more trouble breathing, no more of that pain ripping his stomach apart. Still, there's one thing he knows is not right, one thing he knows is not the way it's supposed to be. Or maybe it is, and that's why the serum didn't change it.

"Yeah, of course it did," he says, eventually. "There's nothing wrong with me."

 

* * *

 

One thought echoes inside Bucky's mind, over and over again: the only thing he's allowed to reveal under torture, the only thing he's determined to give the damn Nazis, the only thing they'll ever be able to beat out of him: James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038.

The soldier pulls him by the hair, and Bucky gasps for air the moment his head is out of the barrel. The one that's interrogating him laughs, and then says something in German, to which the other one replies.

"Where is your camp?" the man asks him in English.

"James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557—"

He's underwater again, but he's grateful. At least, as he drowns, he can't hear the others screaming.

They take him to another room and strap him to a metal table, where he stays until the doctor comes. He introduces himself as Arnim Zola, and a shiver runs down Bucky's back as the man checks if the syringe is ready.

"This is going to hurt, Sergeant," he says, smiling.

Bucky feels the prick of the needle and the energy flowing inside of him. He closes his fists and cries out in pain. It's like poison — no, it's like the liquid seed of a poisonous plant taking roots into his soul.

Sometimes — he's not sure how often — he wakes up in another room, the one with the chair. The doctor is always there, and he's always smiling. He instructs the two guards, and then, like the claw of a hungry eagle capturing his prey, the machine envelopes Bucky's head. He screams until he has no voice left, and then some more. It's day and it's night, he never knows. He's losing track of time, he thinks, or of himself.

Back on the metal table, he repeats the words, now more than ever, and clings to their meaning. He's dangling from the edge of a cliff, and his grip is getting slippery. Looking down into the abyss, all he sees is peace. How easy it would be to give up, give in, let go. But he thinks of his promise, of the golden rings. He thinks, foolishly, that he can hear Steve calling his name.

"Steve?"

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the table, Peggy is hiding her smile behind a half-empty pint. She's wearing a dress the same colour as her lipstick, shining like a ruby in the middle of the brownish bar. She should look out of place — everyone else would, in her place — but the way she moves, speaks, dares to _be_ suggests nothing but confidence. As soon as she enters a room, it starts revolving around her. Everyone can't help but look at her. Everyone but Steve, it seems. He can't get his eyes off Bucky, who's sitting on his own at the counter, guzzling a glass of whiskey after the other. He's tired — he _looks_ tired — but he's there, all in one piece. Alive.

"You got yourself quite the team," Peggy says, bringing his attention back to her. She's looking at a table closer to the entrance, where Dum Dum has his arms hooked around Dernier's and Falsworth's necks while singing some awful song he doesn't know the lyrics of. Morita is laughing so hard he almost falls from his chair. "They seem a joyful bunch."

"They are."

"And Sergeants Barnes — you asked him too?"

"Of course I did," he says.

"You know," she starts. "I always wondered what that ring meant."

She's looking straight at Bucky — there's no mistaking what's she's talking about. Steve is suddenly very aware of the metal resting against his chest under his shirt. He doesn't speak, doesn't know what to say, can't even think. The music that was animating the room dissolves, giving way to the sound of his own heart, beating faster and faster, and that's all he can hear. His mind runs from possibility to possibility, and none is anywhere near good.

"If you want to report me, do it," he tells Peggy. "But don't touch him. Just don't. He doesn't even— it's not like that for him."

"Steve, calm down," she says, reaching for him over the table. Her thumb brushes against the back of his hand like she's trying to soothe him. It's not working. "I intend to do no such thing. Not now, not ever."

"Why not?" Steve can't stop himself from asking, throwing his better judgment out of the window — it's not like he had much of it, anyway.

"Why should I?" she asks back. "Because the law says so?" She casts a look to the table where the others are sitting. "According to the law, Private Morita should be in an internment camp right now, and Private Jones should have no place in your team." She looks back at him. "If I reported you, how would that make me any better than those pigs we all claim to hate so much?"

"Peggy, I'm— thank you."

"Don't thank me. It should be common decency, really," she says. "Still, it would have been nice to know all my attempts to charm you were useless."

"They weren't," Steve blurts out. "I mean— it's not— it's both—"

"Shut up and drink your beer, Steve, you know damn well that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

She laughs. "It's not only women you don't understand a bloody thing about, then."

 

* * *

 

 _You cannot command me, for I am a free person._  
_But I shall serve you in those ways you require,_  
_And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand._

 

* * *

 

"You haven't met Howard," Agent Carter tells him.

"I haven't, ma'am," Bucky replies. "How did you know?"

"You don't look like you want to punch him in the face," she says. "Let's fix that, shall we?"

He follows her down the corridor and into the laboratory, which looks like something out of a science fiction novel, only slightly more insane. There are plenty of machines that Bucky does his best to ignore, and, buried in a pile of paper, Howard Stark himself.

"Howard, this is Sergeant James Barnes," Carter starts once they reach him. "Sergeant, this is Howard Stark. He was vital for project Rebirth, and he was the one who flew Steve to Austria."

Bucky smiles and squeezes the man's hand harder than necessary.

"Where is Steve, by the way?" she asks.

"He's trying on the new uniform," Stark replies, pointing to a door to his right. Then, he turns to Bucky. "He told me you were quite fond of the old one, right? I guess he'd be happy to have an opinion on this one. I know I will."

Bucky goes into the room, and there Steve is — shirtless. Bucky's heart stops, and there are at least two reasons why: one should be easy to imagine, but it's the second that hits him in the face like a train going full speed. Much like Bucky and everyone else in the army, Steve is wearing a beaded chain around his neck. But at the end of his, along with his dog tags, there's something Bucky recognizes.

"You kept the ring," he breathes out.

Steve whips his head around, and then he smiles. "After the serum my hands got too big to actually wear it," he explains. "I had to relearn how to hold pencils right, too — my drawing kept coming out all weird. Is it okay?"

"Sure, pal, it's okay," he says. _It's perfect._

"It was Peggy's idea."

Something in the way he says that name catches Bucky off guard. Sure, he's noticed the way those two look at each other, and the way they acted at the bar — how she caressed his hand, how flustered Steve was, how they laughed — but it's not until now that the possibility of them being together truly sinks in. It's not until now that he realizes how close he is to losing Steve. It's all too easy to imagine the stain of her red lipstick on the collar of Steve's shirt, or the two of them kissing, making love. They would look so good together, both strong, funny, beautiful. Carter could make Steve happy, and Bucky can't help but love her for it. But that's not all he feels for her — there's something else: he wishes he could give it a name, and he probably could, but he's too scared it would be jealousy.

 

* * *

 

The first time Steve killed a man was in Austria, and he didn't care much about it. In that moment, to be honest, he didn't care much about anything but the reason he was there. He saw the soldier appearing on the other side of the corridor, and knew that only one of them was going to walk away from that fight. He had to save Bucky — it was not a hard choice to make.

The first time Steve almost gets killed is in Germany. The boy is young, blond hair, blue eyes, and for a second it's like looking into a mirror, black uniform instead of blue. That second costs him not seeing the knife in the boy's hand. When he realizes what's happening, it's too late. He raises his shield, but it's no use. The knife never reaches him. Instead, it's the boy that falls to the ground, a bullet hole between his eyes. Steve's head whips around, just like he knows it should never. Up above, between branches and rocks, he sees the barrel of Bucky's rifle. He breathes out a thank you and carries on.

 

* * *

 

Bucky grew up among storytellers. The most vivid memory he has of his ma is her whispering to him the tales of the old world: they're in his bedroom, and she's caressing his hair. She smells like oranges.

"These stories I'm telling you," she says in his head. "They are for you and me only, and for your children, one day. Promise you won't tell them to anyone else."

"Not even Steve?" he asks.

"These are the stories of our people, and they are for our people only."

Bucky promised, and didn't even cross his fingers as he did: if Steve wasn't one of his people, then who was? If he couldn't tell him his mother's stories, then who would he tell them to?

Not that he believed in those stories — (the one about the poor lad who fixed the King's watch and won the princess' hand in marriage by making her speak; the one about the snake who became the King's son-in-law; the one about the man who ran from Death and Old Age for a million years, only to be defeated by the very fear that set him on his quest in the first place) — or that he thought his ma did, either. Stories are not meant to be believed, but to be told, listened to, and, hopefully, remembered.

And Bucky remembers: every night, before falling asleep, he whispers those tales to himself. Some nights, when he's very lucky, he hears his ma's voice speaking into his ears, instead of his own.

And it happens, when he does fall asleep, that he dreams of Sarah Rogers. Her stories were much different from his ma's. They were told with the same pride and were just as heavy with history, but they were different, maybe for the only reason that they came from a different person. She spoke of fairies and saints in the same breath, never refraining from telling her tales in the exact same way she had heard them, never watering them down or censoring them.

And so Bucky and Steve learned of the lady who walks the plains of Ireland with her green dress, wailing in pain as she announces the coming of death; of the woman so holy that she could not be bent by neither humiliation nor torture, whose breasts were cut off, but healed in the night; of the one who was beheaded by her own father for that which she believed in, and of the storm that came after; of the tricksters who hide in the shadows, who steal children and replace them with their own sickly ones.

After she told them that last one, Steve asked her if he was one of those. Sarah just smiled, and said that he was an angel — too fragile for this world, but with a fire burning inside of him.

Many years later, Sarah was just as fragile as Steve. "You look like an angel," she told Bucky. It was the last thing she ever told him. "My Steve's guardian angel."

Bucky smiled, back then — one of those smiles you give someone who's dying, one of those that hide the tears. Now, he thinks of those words and laughs. How wrong she was.

 

* * *

 

"Are you okay?" Steve asks. Bucky is the only one who can hear him. All the others are too absorbed in whatever definitely true story Dum Dum is telling.

"Of course I am," he answers, smiling. He smiles a lot lately, Steve has noticed, but not the smiles he used to smile before: not the obnoxious ones for when he was looking at himself in the mirror, fixing his hair for ages; not the charming ones he reserved to dames, when he leaned towards them whispering whatever he whispered that made them blush; not the ones for when Steve did something stupid — those were Steve's favourite, the more honest. The smiles he's been smiling lately never reach his eyes, and disappear as soon as he thinks he's out of Steve's sight. They're not honest at all.

"What are you not telling me, Buck? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? That's your question?" he asks. "I have one for you, too: how are _you_ okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"We're at war," he says. "We see people die every day — we _kill_ people every day — and you act like you're living your life's dream!" Steve wants to stop him, but Bucky keeps going. "And it probably is, isn't it? I mean, you got yourself recruited by some mad scientist who made you—"

"Who made me what? Healthy? Strong?"

"A weapon, Steve. They made you their weapon, their puppet, and you don't even know."

Steve doesn't know how to answer that. There are many words flying around in his head, and most of them he knows he would regret saying the moment they came out of his mouth.

Bucky seems to be thinking the same thing, because he doesn't say anything for a while, either. Then, he whispers, "You could have been happy."

"I _am_ happy."

"You're in the middle of a war," he says. "No such thing as happiness, here."

"And that's exactly why I let them experiment on me," Steve begins. "There is a war, and people are dying, and I couldn't just stay back and watch."

"Why not?"

"Because that's what _they_ want," Steve says. "Do you think this war started out of nowhere? Do you think no one knew what was coming? We all stood and watched, and look where it got us."

"You're a fucking good person, has anyone ever told you that?" Bucky says, and it sounds nothing like a compliment.

"All those times I got beat up in an alley, all those times you came to save me, that's the same thing," Steve says. "Isn't that why you enlisted?"

Bucky lets out a bitter laugh. "I was drafted, Stevie," he says. "I was fucking drafted."

 

* * *

 

Bucky wakes up before his body does. He cannot move, cannot breathe. There's something heavy pressing on his chest. It's moving. It's alive. He catches glimpses of the creature — bits and pieces, nothing he can make sense of: scarlet red skin, slimy and sticky; arms, so many arms; no eyes, but still, someone staring at him. It smiles, and then drags its claws across his throat. Blood comes sprouting from the cut, red and warm, and the creature feasts on it. It laughs.

Bucky gasps awake, sitting up on his cot. On the other side of the tent, Steve is sleeping soundly. When he finally catches his breath, he puts his shoes on and goes out. The air is cold against his sweaty skin, and Bucky exhales deeply, welcoming it inside his lungs. Up above, the sky is starless. He thinks back to his dream — the one he's been having since Austria, the one he thinks will never let go of him. He can picture it: himself, tossing and turning in his coffin, and the creature laughing, just laughing.

When he reckons he's far enough, he sits down on the wet leaves, his back against a tree, curled up with his arms around his legs and his head resting on his knees. He tries not to think of anything — not of the war, not of Zola, not of Steve, not of anything that happened since he left Brooklyn.

"There was a Red King, and he bought ten ducats' worth of victuals," he whispers. The words come out of him before he even thinks about them. As he speaks, he tastes the salt in his mouth: he's crying. He squeezes his eyes and wishes he could open them and be back home, back to his old bedroom. All he wants to smell is oranges. "He cooked them, and he put them in a press. He locked the press, and from night to night posted people to guard the victuals."

He doesn't realize what he's doing until he bites the metal of the barrel. He opens his eyes and sees his hands laced around the handle of the gun, thumbs close to the trigger. If he pressed it, it would all be over. It would be a moment of pain, and then peace. And he doesn't think he would even feel the pain, in the midst of all that he's already feeling.

"You look just like an angel, my dear James," Sarah tells him, her voice carried by the east wind. "My Steve's guardian angel."

 

* * *

 

 _I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,_  
_And the eyes into which I smile in the morning._

 

* * *

 

It's Jones who notices it first. Of course he is. "So, you and the Sarge," he starts. "You two in a fight or something?"

"It's complicated," Steve answers, and blesses the moment the Germans start shooting at them.

 

* * *

 

"Three trucks, all identical," Dum Dum tells them. "There's no way of telling which one is carrying the plans."

Steve nods. "Jones, you handle communication as usual. Dum Dum, you're with Morita, take the first one. Dernier and Falsworth, you take the second. Bucky, you're with me."

"I'll go with Morita," Bucky says, and they split.

 

* * *

 

Next, comes Dernier: "You know, Cap, I don't think I've ever seen you and the Sergeant not talking to each other for so long."

"You want me to keep talking to you?"

" _Oui._ "

"Shut up, then."

 

* * *

 

Falsworth doesn't say anything for a long time, but they're hiding in a foxhole, so it's not hard to notice the way he's staring at Bucky.

"I knew this girl, once — Rosa, she was called," he starts. "Beautiful, of course, really beautiful. But that's not what I loved the most about her. You know what was?" Bucky doesn't know what to answer, so he doesn't, and Falsworth continues. "She was never afraid. Or she was, I suppose, but she never let it show," he says. "She was a servant at my father's house, and she knew her place in the world, but she never let anyone else tell her what she could or couldn't be. I wish I was more like her, but I'm not. I am the heir of the great and old house of Falsworth, and I never had the strength to be more than that."

"Is there a point to this?"

"I don't know, to be honest," he replies. "But I think those are the best love stories, in the end, the ones poets write about: the prohibited ones, the ones that end in tears — like Romeo and Juliet."

"That's rubbish," Bucky says.

"Yeah, that's rubbish."

 

* * *

 

"I swear to God, Cap, you either go talk to him right now or we'll tie the two of you together in your sleep," Dum Dum tells him. "Either way, you'll have to deal with whatever is going on."

 

* * *

 

A long time ago, happiness looked like pencils and a notebook bought with the last money he had, Bucky thinks. Like Brooklyn at midday, when it's summer and the world is bathing in sunlight, and he can't remember the last time Steve coughed. But that's just another lie, an illusion. After summer comes autumn and then winter, and after midday the shadows come creeping back onto the streets, taller and taller as time goes, like the claws of a black cat cutting through meat, until darkness is all there is.

Right now, happiness doesn't look like anything. The world has plunged into darkness, and he has managed to extinguish the only light he ever knew — or maybe it never truly shined for him.

"Are you mad at me?" Steve asks as he sits down next to him. "'Cause I'm not mad at you."

"Why not?" Bucky asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Why would I be?"

"I'm a liar," he says.

"Why would I care about that?"

"You know, when I got that letter, the first thing I did after reading it was burning it — like I thought it was going to go away or something," he says, forcing the words out. "And there you were, putting yourself in trouble trying to enlist, over and over again. I'm such a fucking coward."

"Don't say that. Never say that."

"It's the truth."

"No, it's not," Steve says. "Remember that time I was sick and you didn't eat so I'd have more food for myself?"

"I remember how pissed you were when you found out."

"But you kept doing it, I know you did," he says. "You were always there for me — when I was sick, when I got myself into a fight, when my ma died—"

"Steve—"

"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," he says. "You could be a coward, a liar, or all those things you think you are, and I still wouldn't care. It still wouldn't stop me from—" He stops, eyes wide open, as if the words he was about to say took him by surprise. He clears his voice and says, "You are the bravest man I know, even if you don't believe it. You are."

 

* * *

 

_I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup._

 

* * *

 

Steve walks along the side of the building, Bucky following him with his rifle drawn. When they get to the corner, they stop. There are five soldiers guarding the door. He tells Bucky, and the man nods. They're ready.

The shield swirls in the air, sending two of the guards on the ground. While Bucky takes care of the others, Steve springs forward, taking the chip Howard gave him out of his pocket. Just like he said, there's a small opening in the side of the door, right under the number pad. As soon as the chip is in, the light on top of the door turns from red to green, and the shutters slide open.

There's a flash of blue light coming from inside, and Steve has one second to recognize the jarring sound he hears as the same he heard back in Austria. The weapons fires, and someone pushes him to the side. As he falls, Steve sees the light exploding through the door, and Bucky standing right where he was a moment ago, holding the shield in front of him. The light hits him, sending him flying several feet away.

 

* * *

 

Agent Carter comes to him in the infirmary.

"I read Steve's report," she says. "I'm surprised he let you out of his sight."

"I made him," Bucky says. "And I'm fine. The shield took most of the blast — gotta thank Stark for that, I guess."

"Still, we both know Steve can be quite dramatic, especially when it comes to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He cares a great deal about you," she says. "But you know that, I suppose."

"He cares about you too."

Carter laughs. "One should think a sniper would be able to see what's right in front of him."

 

* * *

 

"Why did you give me that ring?" Steve finally asks. The snow is fresh under his feet, and the sun nothing more than a pale circle covered by the clouds.

"Do I really need to say it?" Bucky asks back.

"Yes, please."

"I can't," he says, giving a meaningful look to the others, who were not more than a few feet away, all looking at the radio over Jones' shoulder. "Not right now."

"Later?"

"Later, I swear," he says.

"Okay."

"Okay," Bucky confirms, smiling. Then, he looks down the cliff. In the distance, the rail climbs the mountain like a metal-and-wood snake. "Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?"

"Yeah, and I threw up."

"This isn't payback, is it?"

"Now, why would I do that?"

 

* * *

 

_I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care._

 

* * *

 

The snow is white and cold and everywhere. As he dies, Bucky speaks the words he never thought he'd get to say.

He whispers them, but he might as well have screamed, for how they tear up his lungs on their way out. It the forest, it doesn't matter either way. No one's there to hear him.

 

* * *

 

It isn't painful. He thought it would be, but it isn't. It's quiet, and lonely, even if he can hear Peggy crying over the radio as she says goodbye. It's peaceful — a kind of peace he's never known before.

He thought it would be colder. But as the gelid water fills the cockpit of the Valkyrie, a fire burns inside him still. The same fire as always, the one that kept him alive through many nights of winter. But finally, the time has come to sleep. He closes his eyes, lets the salt fill his lungs, waits.

Maybe, there was a reason why he didn't reach Bucky's hand. Maybe, this is how it was always going to end for them. Both dying alone, both exhaling their last breath in the cold. Maybe, this is their way of being together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed reading this fic, please consider reblogging it on [tumblr](http://florencedrunk.tumblr.com/post/160726973452/and-the-honeycomb-will-taste-sweeter-coming-from)!
> 
> Again, the prompt comes from [this post](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com/post/158582617413/random-ww2-era-stucky-prompt) by [mgnemesi](http://mgnemesi.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> \- The title comes from an old Celtic wedding vow. The version I used in the story was actually written by [Morgan Llywelyn](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan_Llywelyn) in her book _Finn Mac Cool_. 
> 
> \- The idea of Romani Bucky comes from [here](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com/post/152552180785/romani-bucky).
> 
> \- Winifred's stories are Romanian-gypsy folk tales ([The Watchmaker](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/roma/gft/gft073.htm), [The Snake who became the King's Son-in-law](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/roma/gft/gft067.htm), [The Red King and the Witch](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/roma/gft/gft074.htm)), while Sarah's are either Irish folk tales ([Banshees](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banshee), [Changelings](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Changeling)) or stories about Christian saints ([Saint Agatha of Sicily](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agatha_of_Sicily), [Saint Barbara](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Barbara)).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the ice to the water, and what came in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to heartsforbuck ([x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsforbuck/pseuds/heartsforbuck), [x](http://heartsforbuck.tumblr.com)) for being my beta for this chapter.

There are shards of ice trapped under his skin, and they cut through his flesh as the guards drag him along the corridor. Tears run down his cheeks, frozen before they hit the ground, and as he speaks, the words come out of his mouth in a language he doesn't remember learning, condensing in the air like white vapour.

"Welcome back, Soldier," Zola greets him. He's older than he was yesterday. Years older. "I have some questions for you."

The doctor asks and asks and not once fails to be answered. (What is your name? When were you born? Where did you grow up? When did you have sex the first time? What do you fear the most? What do you want? What do you _really_ want? Do you remember how you died? What is the last thing you saw before you fell?)

When they are done — hours, days, centuries later — the doctor smiles, and orders the guards to put him back on ice. As the metal door seals, the Soldier sees someone reflected on the glass of the round window: a sad, sad man, with a metal arm he hasn't always had, and a smile that's obviously missing from his face. He wonders who that is.

 

* * *

 

Steve runs out of the room and through a corridor and into the street. He's in Manhattan, but something's wrong. Under dozens of multicoloured screens, he recognises the skeleton of Time Square.

"At ease, soldier," someone says. Steve turns to see a man dressed in black with an eyepatch covering his eye. "Look, I'm sorry about that little show back there, but we thought it best to break it to you slowly."

"Break what?"

"You've been asleep, Cap, for almost seventy years."

 

* * *

 

The Soldier lets his finger caress the trigger and watches it all unfold. The room he's in is dark, quiet, but the world outside, bright with colours, screams in pain.

His work is done, but he stays a bit longer. Through the gunfight of his rifle, he watches the man's wife. She's in the backseat of the car, lying over her husband's body, blood staining her pretty pink dress. But it's too late. Mission accomplished.

"Welcome back, Soldier," Zola greets him, like always, a few hours later. "You've done wonderfully." Then, gesturing towards the centre of the room, he adds, "Sit, please."

The doctor is always polite, that's the worst thing about him. He always acts like the Soldier actually has a choice, like he could actually refuse to sit on the chair and have his memories burnt from his brain.

 

* * *

 

He almost catches Bucky, in his dreams, almost reaches him. Their hands are close enough that he can feel his warmth, even if everything around them is cold and white. The tips or their fingers brush against each other, just for a second, and then Bucky falls, and Steve wakes up in his apartment, alone.

He sits up on the bed, trying to catch his breath. It's 3:42 am, the clock on the nightstand informs him. There's no way he'll fall back asleep — or maybe there is, and that would be worse. He goes out.

As he walks down the not-quite-awake-not-quite-asleep street, he can't help but think that the future is like the past in many ways. It makes sense, really. People are always people. They've always been, and for better or worse, they always will be. If something has changed, in the end, it's the past. The War has become a memory, a few paragraphs in history books, black-and-white footage that might as well come from a movie. That's how Steve feels — like he's slowly fading away at the edges, forgotten and replaced by newer, better things.

For the rest of the world, seventy years have passed from when he dived into the ocean inside the Valkyrie, but for him it's been just a few months. And for all the proof that S.H.I.E.L.D. has given him — tons and tons of military files, books and documentaries containing everything he missed while he was sleeping under the ice — he still can't believe it.

And then there's the red stamp. The first time he saw it, his heart skipped a beat. _DECEASED_ , he read over and over again. Dum Dum, Jones, Dernier, Morita, Falsworth — all dead. On the sixth page, he found something different: _MISSING IN ACTION_. But Bucky's not missing. He knows exactly where he is, under all that snow. The next page had no stamp at all, only Peggy's face smiling at him. At the very bottom, an address and a phone number. He could call, he could visit. God, it would be so good to hear her voice. But he can't, and he doesn't.

 

* * *

 

"Doctor Zola died," a man tells him the next time he wakes up. His name is Vasily Karpov, but the Soldier doesn't know yet.

"When?" he asks, and then bites his tongue. He braces himself for the punch, for the slap. Instead, the man answers.

"Four years ago."

 _Good,_ he thinks, trying not to smile. He knows it won't be long until they strip this feeling away from him, so he tries to savour its taste as best as he can.

The man grabs him by his arm — _his_ arm — and takes him to the chair. There's a woman sitting behind a desk not far away, and the screens before her are reflected on her glasses.

"Are you ready, Ophelia?" he asks her.

She nods, and seconds later all the machines start to buzz. The electricity runs through the wires and into the Soldier's brain. Every time, he promises to himself he won't scream. Every time, he fails to keep his promise. This time, though, the woman's voice manages to be louder than his.

"желание," she begins, and all that the Soldier sees is blue. Deep, warm blue enveloping the world like the sea, but sweet like nothing he's never known before. "ржaвый," she continues, and he feels a stabbing pain in his metal arm, as if something was biting him there, and he could somehow feel it. "Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь." Someone's birthday. Sunlight coming from beneath the curtains on a Sunday morning. Hotness, like burning ice and the heart of a volcano. "Девять. добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон." A day he can't remember. A man he can't remember. Brooklyn, Austria, Siberia. Lying down on a rock, or at the edge of a building, observing his target from afar. Falling. Failing to grab someone's hand and falling down, down, down into the abyss.

 

* * *

 

There's a new building emerging from the skyline of New York City, and it has the name _STARK_ on it in big, blocky letters. He still finds it hard to believe that Howard had a son, and harder still that he got married. But, apparently, he did both of those things, and now there's an even more insane Stark flying around the world in a suit of armour, saving people and making ugly buildings like this one sprout from the ground.

The thing is, the world has changed in all the ways that matter, and Steve is not sure what his place is among the gods and monsters that inhabit it. He wonders how Peggy did it, how she always managed to fit in. He could ask her. He could. He already knows he won't. Does she even know he's back? If she did, she would have probably already reached out. Or maybe she knows and just wants to give him space. Steve doesn't want space, he wants a purpose, something to aim for, something he can call his, something familiar.

The gym, it seems, is the only place where he can make his brain shut up. He wishes he could sweat all his thoughts out of his body, but the little voices in his head are always there, whispering between punches.

"Trouble sleeping?" Fury calls from the doorway.

Steve hits the bag one last time, sending it flying to the other side of the room. "Are you here with a mission, sir?"

"I am."

"Trying to get me back in the world?"

"Trying to save it."

 

* * *

 

Leather straps keep him bound to the bed, and red tubes come out of his arms like the tentacles of an octopus. He sleeps a lot, but he sees a woman, sometimes — the same woman he saw all those years ago. Ophelia, he thinks her name is. She kisses him on the forehead and tells him how good he is, how strong he is, how much he's doing for the greater good. He hates her.

She's taking his blood. _They_ are taking his blood and making weapons out of little girls. They steal them away from their families, take their humanity away from them, turn them into nothing more than machines, like clockwork dolls good only to follow orders and kill people. The Soldier pities them. How stupid of him, to pity someone who has a life just as bad as his.

They make him train them. He teaches them how to punch, how to kick, how to look someone in the eyes as you pull the trigger. They are all good, very good, but no one is as good as Natalia.

"What's your name?" she asks him once, when they're alone. She has her red hair in a ponytail, and her head is slightly tilted to the side. She's smiling in a way that a less prepared mind would mistake for docile.

"I don't have one," the Soldier responds.

"Why not?"

"Nobody ever gave me one."

"That can't be true," she says. "I have no one, but I still have a name."

"I don't."

"What am I supposed to call you, then?"

There's a spark in the back of his head, like a flash of white-hot light exploding in his mind. Old words come to him, spoken by a woman with hair as red as Natalia's. _You look like an angel._

"James," he says, surprising himself. "You can call me James, but not in front of the others."

"Okay, James"

 

* * *

 

 _In the darkest of nights, you are the star guiding me home._  
In the brightest of days, you are the shade giving me shelter.  
And I pledge to do all that is in my power to be the same for you.

 

* * *

 

"All it took for you visit me was an alien invasion, then," Peggy says as soon as she spots him standing in the doorway to her room. "Had I known, I would have arranged one earlier."

Steve laughs. He genuinely laughs for the first time in forever. He had almost forgotten how easy it was, how effortless.

"Peggy, I'm—"

"You've got nothing to apologise, Steve," she interrupts him. "You just saved the world, cut yourself some slack."

"What about you?" he asks. "How many times have you saved the world?"

She almost looks like she wants to answer that, but, instead, she says, "I saw you on the telly, you were fantastic. I'm not sure about the new outfit, though."

They talk. They talk and talk and can't seem to be able to stop. About the war, about today, about everything that happened in between. They talk about the future.

"What are you going to do, now?" she asks. It feels like this was the first question she wanted to ask, but Steve is glad it wasn't.

"Fury offered me a job at S.H.I.E.L.D.," he explains. "And a new uniform."

"Good, good," she says. "Nick is a good man. Not always up front about what's going on in his mind, but good."

They spend a few minutes in silence. Then, Peggy reaches for his hand and asks, "You miss him terribly, don't you?"

Steve nods. He just nods. He's afraid what he would happen if he actually tried to open his mouth.

"Show it to me," she says. Steve doesn't need to ask for an explanation. He pulls the chain from under his shirt, and Peggy's hand catches the dangling ring in her hand.

"I used to be so jealous of the two of you, you know?" she says. "Of what you had."

"You have a ring too, now."

The woman smiles, her right hand reaching for her left one. "We were very happy," she says. "We really were."

"What was his name?"

"Angie," she says. "She was called Angie Martinelli."

 

* * *

 

The Soldier runs around the corner and flattens himself against the wall. His pursuers bolt past the alley, and he smiles. He's free — not for long, and not really, but this is the closest he's gotten to freedom in he's not sure how long. They'll find him, eventually. They'll take him back to the vault, beat him, do worse things than that, and then they'll burn everything from his mind. They'll torture him for sake of doing that, not because they want to teach him a lesson, but because they like how he's unable to fight back. And they'll laugh. Oh, how they'll laugh as he lies on the floor, trying not to cry.

He runs and runs until his feet hurt and then some more. When he stops, he takes a deep breath and smells the incoming rain. But there's something else hanging in the air, like a smell that isn't just a smell. Like oranges, but not really. Like a scent that comes from a memory he forgot to remember.

He walks towards the... he doesn't know how to define it — a sensation? — and finds himself staring into the window of an Italian restaurant. It's all green and white and red and wrong. It's wrong. It shouldn't be there. Something's missing, something important, something that he knows he _should_ know. Something that they took away from him.

He feels a warmth on his cheek, like the hand of a ghost caressing him. He thinks of someone: a woman who smelled of oranges, a man who ran away from fear itself, a boy who would have rather died than run away.

 

* * *

 

There are many things Steve doesn't understand about Natasha. One of them is why she keeps trying to set him up on a date with any and every woman who has ever walked the Earth.

"What about that girl from the coffee shop?" she asks him on their flight to the Lemurian Star. "The one with the blonde hair and the rings?"

Steve doesn't answer. He already knows it won't solve a thing, but it's better than getting trapped in her web.

"Or that other one, with the skull tattoo? She looked interested." Then, as if she had just been struck by a celestial revelation, she says. "What about Hill's secretary? She's gorgeous."

"Do you think Hill would like that?"

"No, you're right," she says, going quiet for a few seconds. "What about that man?"

"What man?" he asks back immediately. She smiles. Fuck.

"You know what man," she tells him. "I don't blame you. Nobody could resist those brown eyes."

At that point, Steve jumps off the plane. Without a parachute.

 

* * *

 

"You shouldn't have run away like that," the guard tells him.

The Soldier catches the woman's shape in between the bars, not much more than a shadow against the white neon light behind him. He feels cold. Not as cold as Siberia, surely, but cold. He curls up with his back against the wall and buried his head in his arms. He mustn't speak, mustn't cry.

Pierce is not there, so they're all waiting. That doesn't happen often. The Soldier doesn't like that. He should, it means that he gets to remember for a bit longer, but he hates to wait, hates to hope. After a while without the chair, he starts to see things, and he doesn't always know they're not real.

Right now, on the other side of the cell, a little girl with hair as red as blood is watching him. She's wearing a white tutu, and the Soldier could swear he's seen her before. He wonders what her story is, how she ended up in this cell, if she'll ever get out. But then again, will he?

"Get up," the guard tells him a few hours later. "We're moving."

"Where?"

"D.C."

 

* * *

 

For the entire flight back to the Triskelion, Steve can feel the weight of Natasha's eyes on him, while he's keeping his own fixed on the floor of the plane. He's not sure why he's doing that, though. He'd like to meet her stare, to challenge her, to make her know exactly how he's feeling right now.

 _I trusted you,_ he wants to tell her. _We fought together, and we work together, and I trusted you._

She'd probably laugh. Or would she?

Steve is not comfortable making assumptions about the way Natasha Romanov would react to anything, and he thinks that's a smart thing to do, if he ever did one.

"I had orders," she says once they land. And then leaves.

 

* * *

 

They take him to a bank. Beyond metal bars, in a room with walls full of little boxes, the chair is already waiting for him.

How many of those are there? Who builds them? Whoever that is, have they ever tried their creation on their own skin? Do they know how deeply its fire burns? They understand what it does, the engineers and technicians who designed it, but do they know that in order to delete memories, the chair has to bring them to the surface first?

Two boys are sitting on the floor of a living room, facing each other. They can't be more than fifteen.

"Are you done yet?" one asks.

"No!" the other replies. Then, without looking up from the page, he adds, "Stay still and shut up. I'll tell you when I'm done."

"This is the last time I model for you, I swear."

"Yeah, right. You like your own face too much to get refuse a portrait."

The first boy fakes outrage, and the second one laughs before reproaching him again. He has a weird look on his face, like he's lost in another dimension, like nothing can touch him. The tip of his tongue pokes out of his lips, and his eyes are concentrated on the paper, moving as his hands do, only rarely stealing glances at his subject.

"Boys, it's getting late," a voice calls from the other room, and shortly after a woman's head appears from the doorway. "I wouldn't want you mom to worry about you, Steve."

"She's working a night shift, Mrs Barnes," one of the boys — Steve — tells her.

"I was thinking he could spend the night, Mom," the other boy says.

"Right, then," the woman says. "Just make sure you don't make any trouble."

For a second, the Soldier remembers. Then, it's all gone.

 

* * *

 

Sam feels new and warm and alive in a way Steve had forgotten one could be. He laughs and he moans and he shines like the Sun at midday, when it's so hot that you feel it your skin burn, but can't bring yourself to care. He's real, and Steve wonders if he will ever feel as real under someone else's fingertips as Sam does under his. The lie in bed, afterwards, without speaking, still tasting each other on their lips. Their legs are tangled, and, without even noticing, they drift into sleep.

The morning enters the room from between the blinders, casting parallel lines of sunlight onto the opposite wall.

"On your left," Sam tells him when he notices he's awake.

Steve smiles, just as easily as he did with Peggy.

"Can I ask you a question?" Sam asks. "You don't have to answer, though."

"Go ahead."

"Was this your first time since 1945?"

"Yes."

"Was it your first time with a man?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Not at all," he says. "Just wondering."

"About?"

"About a lot of stuff," he says. "About what it must have been like before."

There are a few moments of silence, neither uncomfortable nor comfortable. Just silence. Then, Sam speaks again.

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

"I could eat, yeah," Steve answers, amused.

"I'm making breakfast, then," Sam says, getting up. "Bathroom is through there, if you want to shower."

Alone, Steve closes his eyes and leans back on the pillow. It was his first time with a man. It was his first time since 1945. It was also his first time ever, with anyone. Why didn't he tell him that? Why couldn't he be honest with the one person who's been treating him like a real person for the first time since he came out of the ice?

He gets up and grabs his pants from the floor. As he puts them on, his hand encounters the content of one of the pockets: a chain with a ring attached to its end. He took it off last night. He just did, without even thinking why. Maybe he just couldn't bear the thought of having to answer _that_ particular question. What would he say, if Sam asked him where the ring came from? Would he lie about that too?

He leaves through the window and doesn't look back.

 

* * *

 

The Soldier has been waiting outside of the building for seven minutes when the man with the shield climbs into one of the apartments. He's blond, strong jaw, blue eyes — the Soldier watches him through the window. No sign of the objective — Fury, Nicholas J., Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. — but he has to be in there with him.

The Soldier waits, hands tights around his rifle. The man is talking to someone — could that be the objective? There's only one way of knowing, really. He moves along the roof of the building, following the blond man's line of sight. In the noisy night of D.C., the rifle doesn't even make a sound. The bullet flies through the air and then through the wall, traversing bricks and concrete.

Now, he knows he has to run. The other man is after him, but he'll never catch up. Even if he did, what's the worst thing that could happen? You can never beat Hydra, and you can never escape it. That's true now more than ever.

The Soldier stops and turns around, catching the shield the blond man has thrown at him with his metal arm. The man is surprised. He's also beautiful, the Soldier thinks. He would look even more beautiful with his skull bashed in. But he's not the objective. The objective is dead, and it's time to go back to the vault. He throws the shield back and runs.

 

* * *

 

"Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists," Natasha tells him with the same tone she uses when she debriefs him before a mission. "The ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years."

A ghost story, then. He knows lots of those, and he's never believed them. But he's not stupid enough now to know there is a truth behind all of them.

 

* * *

 

_I shall never forget you, for your name is carved onto my bones,  
And I can feel my own written under your skin._

 

* * *

 

Here's a secret that nobody knows: the Soldier loved, once upon and time, and maybe he was even loved.

He doesn't remember her name, or what she looked like. He knows he was James to her, and that she bit, and scratched, and laughed even when there was nothing to laugh about. She dressed in black and had long red hair. He remembers the cold, and what they did to keep warm. That's all the chair didn't manage to burn away from his memory.

He's not sure, but he thinks he remembers the taste of her skin, sometimes, and of her blood, too. Maybe, if he closes his eyes, he can see her hands wrapped around the handle of a gun, and feel the cold blade against his throat. Maybe, some nights, he almost dreams, and sees himself lying down in the darkness, listening to two hearts beating together.

 

* * *

 

Pierce is launching bombs at them from the Triskelion. Zola spent the last forty years hiding right under Camp Lehigh. Hydra has been thriving in the darkness, calling itself S.H.I.E.L.D., shaping history, killing everyone who dared to oppose it, including Tony's parents.

He should have known, they all should have. All those years ago, the day Erskine gave him the serum — the day Erskine died — a man warned him. "Cut off one head, two more shall take its place," he said. Back then, the words sounded like the rambling of a madman close to his death, but now...

"What do we do?" Natasha asks him. Steve would go as far as saying she looks scared, for the first time since he's known her.

"I know someone."

 

* * *

 

There's four of them — three after he kills Sitwell, but he only cares about the red woman and the blond man.

"она моя. найди его," he hisses to the others. _I'll take care of her. Find him._

He jumps off the bridge and lands on a car down below. The woman runs, he walks. She's clever, a trickster. He likes her. He should like her better with his hand wrapped around her neck. Usually, he doesn't enjoy fighting. He prefers to watch his victims fall to the ground from afar, not even aware of what happened to them. But this... this is good. She's fire and blood and electricity. She moves like a shadow and shoots like she born to do it. The Soldier doesn't know that he was born to do, but he was made to kill, and kill he will.

The man is a whole other thing. He's not subtle, not sophisticated. But he's strong. They fight — metal arm against metal shield, knife twisting in the air, hungry to taste the flesh and drink its juice. It's like a dance, almost, or at least it feels like one. They punch, they kick, they fall and get back up, perfectly balanced. This could go on forever, and maybe the Soldier wouldn't even mind.

Then, the muzzle comes off.

"Bucky?" the man asks.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he says. The words come out in English, but he doesn't know why.

 

* * *

 

Fury is alive, that son of a bitch. And, of course, Hill was in on it. But he doesn't care. Not right now. Right now, Hydra is preparing to launch three giant weapons that could kill millions at a time, and the only way to stop them is to embark on a suicide mission — nothing new under the sun.

But Bucky is alive. He's alive. Bucky's alive. Steve looks at his ring, feels the metal under his skin, and repeats the words under his breath. He can't stop thinking about that. He's alive.

"It's his, isn't it?" Sam asks. He appeared from nowhere. "He gave it to you."

Steve nods.

"You weren't wearing it the other night."

"Sam, I'm— I'm sorry I left. I—"

"I get it," he says. "Too much, too soon. I've been there."

"Still, I'm sorry."

"You have other things to worry about right now. Are you okay?" he asks. "Stupid question, sorry."

"He's alive," Steve says. "He's alive and I'm fucking happy and how shitty is that? I have no idea what he's been through, but all I can think about is that he's right here."

"Feelings are complicated, man. They don't always make sense."

Silence.

"So, you're following Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"No," Sam says. "I'm following Steve Rogers."

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," he says. "He's gonna be there, you know?"

"I know."

"Look, whoever he used to be, the guy he is now, I don't think he's the kind you save. He's the kind you stop."

"I don't know if I could do that."

"Well, he might not give you a choice. He doesn't know you."

"He will."

 

* * *

 

Another buried memory as he screams in pain on the chair: two boys making their way to an apartment building in Brooklyn. One, the Soldier has seen many times in mirrors, only younger; the other looks an awful lot like the man on the bridge, but way, way smaller. He remembers what they're called, this time.

"We looked for you, after," Bucky Barnes says as he follows Steve Rogers up the stairs. "My folks wanted to give you a ride from the cemetery."

"I know, I'm sorry," Steve tells him. "I just...kind of wanted to be alone."

 _Tell him,_ the Soldier hears Bucky think. _Tell him tell him tell him._

"How was it?" he asks instead.

"It was okay," Steve says, his voice soft and broken and _wrong_. "She's next to Dad."

"I was gonna ask—"

"I know what you're gonna say, Buck, I just—"

"We can put the couch cushion on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun," he tries. He knows Steve won't accept if he thinks this is charity, because Steve's a self-sacrificing idiot, so he adds, "All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash."

They are in front of the door, now, and Steve can't find his key, as usual. Bucky kicks a brick aside, revealing the spare one under it. He picks it up and gives it to Steve.

"Come on," he tells him.

"Thank you, Buck, but I can get by on my own."

"The thing is, you don't have to," he says, when really he means, _I don't want you to be_. "I'm with you till the end of the line, pal."

He presses his hand on Steve's shoulder. He wants him to know he's not alone. He wants him to know that he's loved. He wishes he could say more, but at the same time he doesn't think there are enough words in the world for what he needs to tell him.

Then, like film in an old projector, one of the frames gets stuck and slowly burns away, leaving only black behind.

 

* * *

 

"I have no idea where Clint is," Natasha says at some point. She whispers it, to herself, mainly, but Steve and she are alone, so it's hard not to hear her.

"You don't think he's..."

"It would make sense, wouldn't it?" she says, eyes looking out of the window. "He was the one who recruited me. Saved me from the Red Room. But no, he's not a fucking Nazi."

"You trust him that much?"

"I trust him with my life," she says. A few days ago, Steve wouldn't have imagined it possible for her to say something like this, something so personal. Not so easily.

"I had someone like that, once," he tells her, for no other reason than the fact that he wants to, that he needs to remind himself of that.

"I was there when you woke up," she says. "Did you know?"

"I didn't."

"Did they tell you what your first word was after you woke up?"

"No."

"You called for him."

Steve squeezes his eyes. "I don't remember."

"Of course not, memory is a tricky thing."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because there's something else I have to tell you, something I don't really remember," she says. "But I will tell you, once all this is done."

"Okay."

"Okay?" she asks. "Just like that?"

"I trust you."

 

* * *

 

The Soldier asks for another muzzle, but Pierce just laughs and tells him to get ready. He follows his orders (don't let him switch the chips, kill him), and waits at the heart of the helicarrier for his objective — Rogers, Steven Grant, A.K.A Captain America — to arrive. He doesn't have to wait for long.

"People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen," Rogers tells him. It's a statement that sounds more like a plea, and what follows is, "Please, don't make me do this."

 _I'm not making you do anything,_ The Soldier thinks. _I'm here to kill you. That's my mission._

They fight. Or, the Soldier fights; Rogers keeps pulling his punches. Is this the best he can do? Is this really the man who survived all those years frozen under the ice? The one who stormed castles and saved lives and defeated the founder of Hydra himself? No, he's doing this on purpose. It makes the Soldier angry.

Finally, something happens: Rogers realises that it won't be long before the helicarriers start doing their job: it's time for Captain America to show up. The Soldier feels both of his arms breaking — first, the one made of bones, and then the metal one. Rogers' own arm is around his neck, pressing on his throat until he passes out.

For him, the darkness lasts only seconds, but it's enough for Rogers to take the chip and climb his way up to the core of the helicarrier. It's also enough for the metal arm to reboot. A bullet to the stomach, Rogers is down. But it's done. The chip is in. It's over.

There's fire, at first — the ships have started shooting each other — and then there's a hole in the side of the room, and there's wind too. The whole thing shakes as it falls to pieces, and the Soldier finds himself pinned on the glass floor, with a large metal beam pressed on him. He can't move. Is this how he's going to die? Will he burn? Will he die in the crash? Or will he live enough to drown in the Potomac?

Rogers is still alive — barely — and he's... saving him? Why would he do that? Why won't he let him be free? Why won't he let him die?

"You know me," he says when the Soldier is free.

"No, I don't!" The Soldier yells. He punches too hard and loses balance, falling back on the ground. "I don't."

"Bucky, you've known me your whole life," Rogers tells him. He's not fighting. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Shut up!"

Rogers takes his helmet off, and his shield falls out of one of the holes in the ground. "I'm not gonna fight you," he says. He reaches under his uniform and takes out a chain he's wearing around his neck. "You gave me this," he says, showing him a golden ring attached to the chain. "You told me you were going to tell me why, the last time I saw you. Please, I want to know..."

_Kill him. Kill him kill him kill him._

"You're my mission."

One last punch.

"Then finish it," Rogers says. "Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

 

* * *

 

For a second, Steve could swear he sees Bucky in the Winter Soldier's face. Then, he falls down into the water, but someone falls after him.

 

* * *

 

_I shall never forsake you, for my blood calls for your blood,  
And my thirst is placated only when I drink from your lips._

 

* * *

 

In the museum, the Soldier finds a man that looks just like him. _Bucky Barnes,_ he reads beside the picture of his face, and beneath, _1917 - 1944._

"Don't tell me you're getting sloppy, James," someone says from behind his back. He turns around to see Natasha Romanov smiling at him. He doesn't like that smile. "You should be more careful if you plan on hiding."

"What do you want?"

"Do you remember me?"

"Almost."

"Almost," she repeats. "What do you need?"

"What?"

"You're on the run, you're alone, you're confused," she says. "How can I help you?"

"Why would you want to help me?"

"You'll remember, eventually. What do you need?"

"Time."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed reading this fic, please consider reblogging it on [tumblr](http://florencedrunk.tumblr.com/post/160726973452/and-the-honeycomb-will-taste-sweeter-coming-from)!
> 
> \- Steve's first scenes in 2011 are inspired by these [deleted scenes](https://youtu.be/Pov4qMSfg9w) from The Avengers, which are the saddest thing ever and also arguably the best thing about that movie.
> 
> \- Yes, that's a reference to the assassination of JFK. 
> 
> \- If you watch CA:TWS closely you'll notice that when Steve and Natasha go to Sam's after encountering Zola, Sam says "I made breakfast, if you guys eat that sort of thing," and then gives a meaningful look to Steve. Considering this, and the fact that what they do at the beginning of the movie is definitely flirting, I decided that they totally had sex at some point after Steve went to see him at the VA, and then Steve freaked out and left.
> 
> \- The whole thing about how the Winter Soldier killed Fury comes from [this brilliant post](http://dernhelme.tumblr.com/post/110224621179/how-the-winter-soldier-shot-nick-fury).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some say the world will end in fire,_  
>  _Some say in ice._  
>  _From what I’ve tasted of desire_  
>  _I hold with those who favor fire._  
>  _But if it had to perish twice,_  
>  _I think I know enough of hate_  
>  _To say that for destruction ice_  
>  _Is also great_  
>  _And would suffice._
> 
> **— Robert Frost (Fire and Ice, 1920)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to heartsforbuck ([x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsforbuck/pseuds/heartsforbuck), [x](http://heartsforbuck.tumblr.com)) for being my beta for this chapter, and to everyone who left (or will leave) comments and kudos on this work, I really appreciate it!

 

"This would be a lot easier if Natasha was here," Sam says, looking at the maps spread out in front of him.

Steve doesn't really have an argument against that, especially since they are in a country that didn't even exist when he went under the ice.

"He has to be close," he tells Sam. They've been looking for Bucky for almost a year now, following a trail of spilled blood and burned down buildings, missing people and unrecognizable corpses. The only things they know is that he's targeting Hydra, that he must be hiding somewhere in Eastern Europe.

With a huff, Sam falls back onto the bed, covering his eyes with an arm. He's tired. Steve's tired. And the ugly yellow wallpaper of the hotel room they're staying isn't doing much to improve their life. Steve almost misses not seeing colours.

"Hey, Sam—"

"We've had this conversation already. Multiple times," Sam interrupts him. "I'm not going anywhere. Just give me a minute."

"Thank you, Sam."

"You're Captain America, you don't have to thank me for anything," Sam replies. The tablet rings. He picks it up, and after a look gives him to Steve. "JARVIS found a former Hydra base just outside the city. It's our best guess."

"It's our _only_ guess."

They wear their suits and bring wings and shield with them, even if already know exactly what they're going to find: doors forced open, bullets buried in the walls, blood painting the floors red. No bodies, this time — God knows what _he_ did with them.

They split up for a few minutes, just to make sure the whole place is clear, and reunite in front a closed door at the heart of the building, a few floors underground. They can hear something inside.

"Ready?" Steve asks.

"You're the one with the shield," Sam replies. "After you."

Steve kicks the door opens and moves forward into the room, shield up. No one shoots. No one moves.

There are screens hanging on the walls and a medical station in one corner. At the centre, the chair — destroyed like all the others they've found. But sitting on the chair, or rather, tied to it, there's a man, bloody, crying. He's trying to say something.

Steve gets closer. Sam has his guns drawn.

"He said..." the man begins, words barely making it out of his mouth. "He said this was the... the last... one."

"What?"

"Stop... looking for... him."

 

* * *

 

A blonde woman in a red dress, and cold hands wrapped around her throat. Mission accomplished.

A handsome boy with eyes green like pastures, and a wound like roses growing on snow. Mission accomplished.

A man with curly hair, on his knees, begging for his life, and the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. Mission accomplished.

Another woman, brunette, with thick glasses hiding eyes filled with tears. Mission accomplished.

The President's wife, and her pretty pink dress, now also red. Mission accomplished.

A car, a bullet in one of the wheels, skulls crashing against the wind glass. Mission accomplished.

Every night, he wakes up, and for a moment he's glad it's all just a dream, a story in his head, a nightmare. Then, it all comes rushing over him: all those faces, all the way they died, all the ways he killed them, how much he enjoyed killing them.

Every night, it's someone new, and a knife, a gun, a rifle, his bare hands.

Every night, it's another victim of the Winter Soldier.

He tries to cry, the first times. Not that he wants to, but he needs to. But he can't. And really, what right does he have to cry? He's an assassin, a cold-blooded killer. He's killed and watched people died for he doesn't even know how many years, and he can't even blame Hydra for all of it. And now, he can't even cry.

Maybe, it's not that he can't cry, but that he doesn't remember how to. Maybe, they took that from him along with everything else, leaving only his most basic instinct, the only thing he really knows how to do, the only thing he's good for.

He made a promise, a long time ago. Sometimes, lying in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, he finds himself whispering those words, even if he's not sure where they come from. Now, he makes another promise: for every person they made him kill, he'll kill one of them.

It's easy, really: he remembers where they kept him, how to get inside their bases, how not to be seen. So he finds them, and he kills them, just like they taught him to.

He kills, and he kills, and he kills.

 

* * *

 

The man was still alive when they found him. Had they been quicker, they would have found Bucky as well. Had they been quicker, it would have all been over, by now.

"You understand what that was, right?" Sam asks. His voice is low, barely audible over the noise of the Quintet's engines.

Steve doesn't answer, and Sam is kind enough not to ask again. They stay silent for the rest of the trip to the Tower. When they get there, Tony's waiting for them on the roof.

"I'm throwing a party," it's the first thing he tells Steve. "You've been away for like four months this time, Loki's scepter is finally back in Asgard, and we're all here for the first time since the Battle — we deserve to party!"

"Natasha's back?" he asks immediately.

"Still AWOL, but the rest of the team will be there. Even Thor."

Steve wants to say no. Really. There's probably nothing he'd like to say. He almost does, but Sam shoots him a look and he understands that there would be no use in answering Tony with anything but," Yes, we deserve to party."

Once they're alone inside the elevator, Sam turns to him and says, "JARVIS won't stop looking if you take one night off. Let the robot do his job, and relax. Just for one night."

" _I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO REMIND YOU THAT I AM NOT A ROBOT, MR WILSON_ " the disembodied voice thunders from the ceiling. " _BUT YES, I SHALL NOT FORGO MY DUTIES._ "

"Then, how come you haven't found him yet?" Steve asks.

" _I SUPPOSE ONE COULD SAY THAT MR BARNES IS VERY GOOD AT HIDING, SIR._ "

 

* * *

 

There's a mattress with a sleeping bag on it, a table with two chairs (one wooden, the other made of red plastic), and a blue fridge with chocolate bars and chips on top of it. There's a couch he found in an alley, kitchenware he stole from a mall, and a whole lot of things that are _his_. There's a pink lamp that doesn't work, newspapers covering the windows, and a journal full of names of places and people he dreams of, sometimes.

_Winifred. Coney Island. Sarah. Brooklyn. Bucky. Red Room. Dum Dum. Azzano. Steve. Steve Rogers. Captain America. Stevie. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight._

He found a picture of _him_ and tucked it in between the pages. It's from a newspaper, so there's no blue or red, and his messy blond hair is grey against the yellowing page. He's not smiling — he doesn't have any expressions, really. He's just looking straight ahead to whoever is taking the picture, more than ready for the whole thing to be over. There were other people with him (a guy with long, blond hair — the same grey as Rogers — and a man wearing a lab coat that's too big for him), but he cut them off and threw them in his orange trash can. He doesn't know who they are, and doesn't remember what the article the photo was attached to was about. He doesn't really care.

There's a noise outside, and the door handle shakes. (He's ready: the mattress is opposite to the window, the table opposite to the door. There's a bag hidden under the wooden floor, near the window that looks out to the roof of the next building. It's a few feet drop, but he knows he can make it.) He tightens his fists and waits. Someone comes in.

"How are you?" the woman asks. She has two names inside his head, two faces. She's Natalia and Natasha, the ballerina and the Black Widow. She's a friend, he thinks, but that's what spiders do, isn't it? They lure you in with nice smells and kind smiles, and before you know it, you're trapped in their web, waiting only to be devoured.

"I'm fine," he tells her, like every other time. "Why are you here?"

"Same as always," she says, sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, stretching her arms above her head. She wants him to be comfortable. "Would you rather be alone?"

("The Red Room," he asked her the first time she came. "What did they do there?"

"They made us who we are.")

He doesn't answer, so she says, "He's looking for you."

"You already told me that."

"And you still haven't thanked me," she says. "I'm the reason he hasn't found you yet."

"Thank you, then."

"You're welcome, but that isn't why I'm here." She crosses her arms. "Have you got any more questions?"

("How much do you remember?" he asked the time after that. "Of us, I mean."

"More than you. But that's not saying much, I guess."

"And?"

"And?"

"What haven't you told me?"

"I told you all you need to know."

"What about the rest?"

"The rest is mine.")

"Will you tell him?" he asks. "Will you tell him where I am?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't want me. He wants _him._ "

"That's not true."

"He doesn't know who I am now. He doesn't know they did—"

"He's looking for you. He wants _you._ "

("I remember kissing you," he said.

"Yes, I remember that too.")

"I don't know who I am," he says.

"You will."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I didn't know who I was, and now I do."

("Did I ever hurt you?" he asked.

"No."

"Did you ever hurt me?"

A second of hesitation. "No.")

"I'm leaving," she says after a while.

"See you next time, then."

"I'm going back to New York."

"Oh."

"Guess you know where to find me," she says. "Goodbye, James."

 

* * *

 

He almost catches Bucky, in his dreams, almost reaches him. Their hands are close enough that he can feel his warmth, even if everything around them is cold and white. The tips of their fingers brush against each other, just for a second, and then Bucky falls. But Steve jumps after him, feels the air burn against his skin, lands down below.

They're in the snow, side by side. If no one finds them, they die like that, with their hands linked together and a dying promise frozen on their lips.

Or, if someone does find them, it's Hydra. Maybe they're both missing an arm or a leg, nothing irreplaceable, but they're still breathing. The Germans drag them through the snow and to Zola. Do they both become the Winter Soldier? Or is Steve the one they really want? Do they leave Bucky to die?

Maybe they both survive the fall, hide, heal, make their way back to somewhere safe. The war ends, and they get back to Brooklyn, live out the rest of their life in peace. Steve marries Peggy (she's the one who proposes), and Bucky finds a wife just as beautiful and smart. They're happy, maybe. Maybe.

Maybe Bucky never answers Steve's question, the one he asked him right before they got on the train. Maybe, they both ignore it until it consumes both of them from the inside. Maybe, the first of them to die does so holding the other's hand, whispering an apology with his last breath.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

He wakes up on the floor of the common room of the Tower, with no idea of what happened the night before. Someone's standing in front of the windows, surrounded by the first light of the morning. The shape is big enough that it can belong to one person only — the same one who gave him a smile and a small golden flask just before the world went dark.

"I can't remember the last time I got drunk," he announces, without even attempting to get up. "I really needed that."

"Glad to be of service, my friend," Thor says.

"Where are the others?"

"In their rooms, mostly. Barton is on the roof. He said something about pizza and pigeons and then ran up there. I'm not sure why."

"Sam?"

"He left with a friend of Tony's."

"What about you?"

"I wanted to talk to you, actually."

"About?"

"About your friend," he says, sitting down on the sofa. "For a long time, I tried to find the light in my brother, even when all he would show me was darkness. But in the end, when I needed him the most, he was there for me, just like I understand your friend was there for you." He stops for a second, like he's trying to find the words. "What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that goodness is only goodness in the face of despair."

"Despair is all I have left," Steve says. He's not sure if Thor hears him. If he does, he's kind enough not to say anything.

 

* * *

 

At night, when he's lying on his bed inside his sleeping bag, he starts thinking — about Zola and Karpov and Pierce, and all the faces that came in between; about Austria and Siberia and D.C., and all the bases he burnt down; about Steve and Brooklyn, Natasha and the Red Room, himself and Bucharest.

He thinks about his arms — the one they gave him — and about how much he'd like to rip it off, cut it out, grind it until all that's left is silver dust. The thought of the metal fusing into his skin and of wires running into his flesh is enough to make him want to scream, to cry, to peel his skin off to reveal the lie beneath.

In the darkness, he sees the red star on his shoulder shining like the eye of an all-eating monster, devouring and growing and burning stronger and brighter. It shows him his past: the back alleys and the bullies to chase away; the scope of a rifle and soldiers falling on the ground before they could make his friends fall to the ground; the trigger pressed again and again and victims whose only crime was not being Hydra; their blood, as red as everyone's; Hydra itself, and cutting off heads and burning them before they could grow back.

Then, there's the question, the most important question: who is he? _What_ is he? What _makes_ him? What did Hydra take away from Bucky Barnes before they could make him the Winter Soldier? What did the Soldier have to free himself from to find the strength to dive after Steve? And about himself? If he's not Bucky, and he's not the Soldier, then who is he?

 

* * *

 

"What's wrong?" Peggy asks as soon as she sees him standing in the doorway.

"You haven't seen me in a year, and that's the first thing you ask?

"You've never been good at hiding your feelings, Steve," she says. "Besides, we can either talk about whatever is troubling you, or about how much my hip hurts. It's your choice, really."

There are about a million things he wants to say, and a million more he knows he'll never be able to say. So, in the end, he just starts with, "Bucky's alive."

"How?" she asks.

The answer is long and complicated and ends up with both of them crying.

"He left me a message," he tells her. "He told me not to look for him, but I don't know if he remembers me. I don't know if he'll ever come back. I—

"Steve— Hey, Steve, remember that night after he d— after he fell from the train?" she asks him, taking his hand into hers. "At that bar in London?"

He remembers. The city was burning and screaming all around him, and he couldn't have cared less.

"Remember what I told you?" she asks.

"You asked me if I believed in him, if I respected him."

"You said you did. Do you now?"

"Always."

"Then stop blaming yourselves. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice," she says, just like she did back then. "If he's not here right now, I'm sure he'll have a pretty good reason. But he'll come back to you. I know he will."

 

* * *

 

He finds a library not far from the apartment. It's a small, dusty place with wooden shelves full of worn down books. The librarian is a lady with long silver hair, and she greets him with a smile every time he comes through the door.

He's not sure how he knows Romanian, but he's pretty sure it wasn't Hydra that taught him. He only knows the books smell of oranges as he reads them, and that they calm him more than anything in the world. He doesn't even remember being calm, not ever. There was always something hanging over his head, something to lose, something to crave so badly it hurts.

But the stories calm him, and, sometimes, he even knows what the next word will be before he reads it. It's like he remembers them — not the way they are written, but their sound, the way they sound in the darkness, as a hand caresses his head just before he falls asleep.

_And he went to the cross of stone. Only a palm's breadth was out of the ground. It took him two days to get to the chest of money. When he lifted it and opened it, Death sat in one corner groaning, and Old Age in another._

_"Lay hold of him, Death," said then Old Age._

_"Lay hold of him yourself."_

_Old Age laid hold of him in front, and Death laid hold of him behind. Later, the old man took and buried him decently, planting a cross near the grave. He took the money and also the horse._

He thinks of James, of how easily the name comes out of Natasha's lips. If Bucky Barnes died when he fell from the train, and the Soldier just before he jumped into the Potomac, then James only existed in between missions, in dark alleys, in words whispered in the dead of night. Like a character in a story, an empty shell, unwritten, free.

 

* * *

 

"Had a nice trip?" Natasha asks as soon as Steve enters his apartment — if apartment is the right word for his personal floor at the Tower. "How did you find D.C.?"

"A lot of people asked me about you," he says, dumping his suitcase on the floor and turning the lights on, revealing Natasha nested on the couch.

"What did you tell them?"

"That I didn't know where you were," he says. "Where were you?"

"I needed a new cover."

"Found one?"

She smiles that smile designed especially to let you know she's keeping a secret you will never know. She seems less poised than usual, though, less guarded. Nervous.

"Before I left, I told you there was something I needed to tell you, this is it," she starts, unprompted. "I was trained in Russia, in a place called the Red Room. I don't remember much about those years, but I remember a man."

"A man?"

"He was strong, ruthless, and the very best trainer I ever had. He was lost, just like me, and he was alone, just like me," she continues. "At the Red Room, they called him the American, but the rest of the world knew him as the Winter Soldier."

Steve doesn't know how to react. He doesn't know what to do, or what to what to say. So, he does nothing, says nothing. He just stays silent, still, and waits.

The next thing Natasha says is, "To me, he was James."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't even remember his face until the highway, I didn't even know I he was real," she says. "They gave me fake memories, I wasn't sure if he was one of those."

"How do you know he isn't?"

"Because he remembers too." She looks straight into his eyes. She's not lying.

"You've seen him?" he asks. "Is he okay?"

"I did, and he is. Or better, anyway."

"Where is he?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Natasha—"

"He knows you're looking for him, and I told him to reach out to you. And he will, but he needs time."

"Time?"

"He needs to understand who he is," she tells him. "You remember Bucky Barnes, he doesn't. Not yet."

Steve falls down onto an armchair, covering his eyes with his hands.

"You haven't told Tony," she says, then.

"I have."

"You told him the Winter Soldier is Bucky Barnes, not that he is his parents' assassin."

"He didn't—"

"That's not the point, Steve. Tony has the right to know."

"What is this? An ultimatum?" he asks. "Will you tell him if I don't?"

"No, I won't need to, because you will."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know how," Steve begins. "I didn't tell him as soon as I found out, and then I just kept not telling him. How can I tell him my best friend killed his parents? Especially now that—"

"Especially now that he's helping you track him down," Natasha says. "Do you really think he'd stop doing that if you tell him the truth?"

"I can't— I can't risk it."

Natasha smiles.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just nice to know that you're not as good as everyone thinks," she says. "You're still much better than most of the people I know, but it's refreshing to see the cracks in that perfect facade of yours."

"What do you want, Natasha?"

"You saved my life," she says, like that explains everything.

"You saved mine."

"So let's save another," she says. "I did my part, it's time for you to do yours."

 

* * *

 

The creature is weighing on his chest, smiling down at him. Or at least James think it's smiling — it's hard to tell with the muzzle covering its face. Its eyes shine in the dark, cold and blue like ice. When it speaks, its voice is husky and Russian.

"You think you're free, don't you?" it asks, cackling. "But that's not true. It was never true, not even when you were young and thought you knew happiness. You were a slave, even back then, to that sickly boy."

"No— Stop—" It's harder and harder to breathe, he can't—

"Even after you got away from him, he was all you could think of: poor little Stevie, all alone in that big, scary city. You remember that, yes? Your stupid promise? Your stupid rings?"

"Stop," he begs. "Please, stop."

"And then the Germans took you, and you were the one needing to be saved," it says. "All that torture, all those nightmares, all those lies, and then you lost him to that woman..."

"Please—"

"Remember what you thought when it was dark and nobody could hear you?" it asks. "That maybe, if he didn't love you, he would at least need you? And then he didn't, but you did, and he wasn't there for you."

"That's not true. Stop—"

"He left you for dead. He forgot you. He moved on. You wouldn't have done that. You never could have. You died saving him."

He's crying now. He can't even talk, he can't even—

_Bang._

A bullet flies through the air and cuts through skin and flesh and bone. Warm, red blood explodes everywhere as the creature screams out in pain. Its hold on his neck his weaker, the flesh of its claws-tentacles-arms colder, its eyes emptier and emptier and then dead.

First, he sees the smoking rifle, and then the man holding it: Bucky Barnes is wearing the same blue coat and the same smile James saw in the museum. He's only there for a moment, the blink of an eye, and then disappears like he was never there.

Maybe it's true, James thinks, he will never be free. Not unless he makes his own freedom, not until he breaks his own chains.

 

* * *

 

_This is a shield harder than diamond and richer than gold.  
I give it to you, and trust you will make good use of it._

 

* * *

 

Saint Stephen was the first Christian martyr. When Sam found out, he snorted and said, "Figures."

Steve laughed. He never really liked saints: no one is that good, at that selfish, or that flawless. (Almost no one)

When S.H.I.E.L.D. revealed to the public they'd found Steve, some people started to think the world was going to end, Bruce told him, one day.

"They thought it was like a Second of Coming of the Messiah, or something," he explained. "If I'm not mistaken, in this scenario I was supposed to be War — the Horsemen War, I mean. Or Pestilence, possibly."

"Well, to be fair, the world did almost end right after I woke up," Steve said.

"Uh."

(Christians call Saint James "Brother of the Lord," Steve remembers his mom teaching him. That would've been funny, in another life.)

He's not sure if he believes in God, anymore — or if he ever has, really. But it's the only thing he has left of his mom, so sometimes, he prays. Not in a church, not in front of a crucifix, but alone, in his room, with his eyes closed.

He joins his hands and whispers, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."

(Saint Natalia always has an anvil at her feet, and Saint Samuel is always missing an eye. Saint Stephen carries three stones and a palm branch, Saint Anthony a book and a lily. Saint James holds a book too, and sometimes a fuller's club. But if Steve were to draw Bucky like a saint, or paint him on the ceiling of a church, or make a statue for people to kneel before, he'd never depict him without his metal arm and the red star burning on it.)

Saints always end up suffering, burned alive or beheaded or stoned to death. (Or they end up tied to a chair, screaming as their mind burns.)

"Lord, I am not worthy of him, but bring him back to me and I will forever be in your debt."

 

* * *

 

New York is noise and concrete and burnt memories.

He gets off the plane he boarded on with a fake passport and gets on a taxi he pays with stolen money, mumbling the first address that comes to his mind.

"First time in the Big Apple?" the driver asks. "Are you going to stay for long?"

James ignores him and hopes he will assume he doesn't speak much English and leave him alone, eventually.

He doesn't.

Half an hour later, James is front of _200 Park Avenue_ , his head full of stories of how good the driver's daughter is at sports, of how much he loves his beautiful wife, and of how lucky he is to have such an amazing family. They're going on vacation to Egypt this summer, and he can't wait to the see the pyramids. He's sure it was aliens who built them, just like the ones that came to the city in 2012. What other explanation is there? If the Battle of New York isn't all a ruse by the government, that is. He'll never trust those Avengers people, especially that blond fella no one knows where he's from. He's an alien too, he's sure of it. He was probably in on the Battle, and on the pyramids too.

Before him, Avengers Tower stands so tall he can barely see the top of it against the grey sky. Natasha's in there, and Steve too. He wonders what he thinks of living in such an ugly building. He could go in there and ask him.

That would definitely go well.

He walks away, putting his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie and making sure his face is not visible to any of the cameras that he knows are looking for him. It won't last long, but he wants to stay hidden for as long as possible.

He remembers the city, and not only from _before_ : he was there with Hydra, for a time. He ran away from a guard, he thinks, but he can't remember where he went, after, or if he went anywhere at all before they caught him again.

He remembers where they kept him, though. It wasn't far from here. He imagines it must have been very funny for them to keep him so close to Stark, and to Steve, when he was in the city. Was he here during the Battle of New York, sleeping in the ice as the world around him crumbled? Or was he off on a mission, putting a bullet in someone's head?

It's all so clear now — the way they used him, the way they treated him, the way he was little more than an object, for them. Then again, that was how he thought of himself: a possession, a pet, lucky enough to be given food to eat and water to drink and a rifle to shoot.

His only regret is that he didn't get to kill Zola, or Karpov, or Pierce. He would have liked to see their eye wither and their flesh going cold. He would have liked to see the flesh eaten away and the bones show. Then, when nothing was left of them, he would have smiled, or laughed, even.

 

* * *

 

In the few centuries-long moments before Tony speaks, Steve tries to think of what he's going to say. He knows it'll be a question. It's always questions with Tony.

 _For how long have you known?_ or _Why are you telling me just now?_

How would Steve answer to that? He had no idea. He has no idea why he's so much of an asshole. Still, he wants Tony to say something, anything. Anything would be better than silence.

 _You should've told me,_ would be better, or _I hate you,_ or _Get out!_

Anything. Anything. Anything.

"Where is he?" Tony finally asks. His voice is toneless. Is he angry? Sad? Hurt?

"I don't know."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"I wouldn't be here if I did."

"At least you're honest about something," he says. Then, he asks, "Why weren't there any files on him in the data Natasha leaked last year?"

"Too old to be digital, I guess."

"We didn't find them on paper, either."

" _You_ didn't," Steve says. "I'm sorr—"

"Don't say that, not unless you mean it." Silence. "Thought so."

Again, silence, and inside his head, deafening noise.

"What now?" he asks. "Should I leave? Just give me a few hours and I'll get my things—"

"Do you want to leave?" Tony asks. He takes a deep breath, and then, without waiting for an answer, says, "What do you think I would have done in your place? If Rhodey was in his?"

"I don't—"

"This is not Stark Tower, anymore, and you are an Avenger. You belong here," he says. "You made a mistake, it happens, but nobody else should pay for it. Especially not your friend."

 

* * *

 

There are a lot of new buildings and the roads all different, so it takes James a while to find the cemetery, but as soon as he passes the iron gates, his feet start moving on their own accord, guiding him to his parents' grave.

He finds it right where he left it, but older, much older. Then again, so is he. For the first time, he's glad both his mom and dad died before the war started, that they didn't see him being shipped off to Europe, that they didn't have to receive a telegram telling them their son was dead — no, missing. Steve would have received it, if he hadn't enlisted...

"There was a Red King, and he bought ten ducats' worth of victuals," he whispers as he sits on the ground. He's not crying, not this time. "He cooked them, and he put them in a press. He locked the press, and from night to night posted people to guard the victuals..."

The rest of the story flows out of him as he caresses the old stone, just like his mom used to caress his hair. He presses his forehead against his mom's name and breathes in. No oranges.

"I gave dad's ring to Steve," he tells her. "I lost yours a long time ago, I'm sorry. But I gave Steve dad's, and he wore it. He still wears it."

No answer, of course.

"I'm scared," he confesses. "I don't know what I'm doing. I came all the way here and I don't even know why."

He doesn't know what he wants, but he knows he won't get it from a cold grave or a forgotten ghost. Maybe he just wants to talk, to say all the things he can't say to anyone else.

"I don't know if this is a second chance, or if I'm just dreaming. What if all of this gets burned away and I wake up on the chair, screaming? What if Pierce is still there?" he asks. "I don't want to go back, but maybe I deserve to..."

He closes his eyes.

"I killed all of them, all the ones I could find. I burned their bases, and I burned their bodies. I didn't even enjoy it, it didn't even make me feel better. I just needed what happened to me to never happen to anyone else."

Silence. A sob.

"I just want to be forgiven."

 

* * *

 

 _I found him,_ Tony's email says. Attached, two pictures: a European passport with Bucky's face on it, and a photo from a surveillance camera of a man in a cemetery Steve knows all too well. The timestamp is only a few hours old.

Bucky's here. He's in New York. But where? He remembered the cemetery, and Natasha said he remembers Steve, so where is he now? Where would he go? Coney Island? Central Park? Somewhere quiet, probably, somewhere he can sleep. Maybe Steve should have JARVIS look for abandoned buildings close to the cemetery. No. Not that. If he really does remember Steve, there's only one place he can be: the same place Steve went to the first time S.H.I.E.L.D. let him free.

When he gets there, he sees that the place has not changed from the last time he was there, which means that he still barely recognise it. But it's still there, under neon signs and squeezed in between coffee shops and pubs.

And Bucky's there too, standing on the other side of the street, and suddenly it's not hard at all to see the place they used to call home under seventy years of change.

As Steve gets closer, the man turns his head to face him. For a second, it looks like he's going to break into a run. But he doesn't. He puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and turns back toward the building.

"I remember this place," he says. "There was a stain on the ceiling that we never knew what it was. Once, you climbed on the table to touch it and almost fell. Scared the living hell out of me."

 _It's his voice,_ it's the first thing Steve thinks. _His_ voice. No accent. No rage. No confusion. He's amused, if anything.

"You used to draw me," he continues. "Never in colour — you could never get colours right — but you used to draw me almost every night."

"I've been looking for you," Steve says.

"That's why I left you that message."

"I—" he stops talking the moment Bucky pulls off his hood. His hair is much shorter than it was on the Helicarrier, closer to what it looked like in the 1940s, and while he's let his beard grow, the war paint around his eyes is gone. He looks... alive, less like a clockwork soldier, more like a person, more like Bucky Barnes.

"What did Natalia tell you?" he asks.

"Nat— Everything," Steve answers. "She told me about the Red Room, about Karpov, about the two of you."

Bucky laughs. "Do you really think she'd do that to you?" He gets closer. "Do you really think she'd tell you everything? Everything they did to us? Everything they made us do?" A pause, as if he's really expecting Steve to answer. Then, "Did she tell you I was coming back?"

"She said you would have, eventually."

"Then how did you find me here?"

"Stark."

"Howard?" he asks. Then, it's like his brain catches up, because he whispers. "No, not Howard."

"Tony," Steve says. "His son."

"Why is he looking for me?"

"I asked him to."

"Does he know?" he asks. _That I killed his parents,_ he doesn't add.

"Yes."

"Good."

Good? Why is that good?

"How are you?" Steve asks. Such a stupid, stupid question.

"Fine." He doesn't sound fine, not at all. "My brain is still fucked up, but at least I'm not getting electrocuted on a daily basis. And no cryo is good too, I guess."

"Bucky—"

"What about you?" he asks. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you fly a plane straight into the ocean. You're lucky you survived, or I'd be really pissed."

"I know," he says. _I know how pissed_ I _was when you died on me._

"And I saw about the aliens, and that green guy."

"He's not that bad once you get to know him."

Bucky's smiles, and then grimaces, like he's surprised he smiled. He takes a step forward, as if to attack, and Steve has no time to react before Bucky's hand in on the back of his head, caressing it lightly. Their foreheads are touching, and after a moment Steve closes the distance between the two of them, pressing his lips on the other's man.

It lasts only for a second. Just enough to feel the electricity, just enough to understand what's happening. Just enough to want more. Then, Bucky's gone, running away, just like in D.C..

And Steve chases him, just like in D.C., but also very much not. It's more of a game, now. They go down the street and through an alley and up an emergency stair to the top of a building. The sky above is crowded by the silhouettes of the taller buildings all around, and it looks like the whole world is closing in on them.

"Bucky," he calls when the other man reaches the edge of the roof.

"I'm not Bucky," he says and he turns around. "I'm James."

Then, he jumps off.

 

* * *

 

A kiss on the forehead.

"Wake up, jerk, we're late," Steve says, his voice soft and warm and close.

He lets out a moan and stretches on the bed. "What time is it?" he asks between a yawn and the other.

"5:30."

"Why am I awake at 5:30?"

"Because we're going running."

"No, we aren't," he says, finally opening his eyes. Everything is white, for a second.

"Yes, we are. Sam's waiting for us, c'mon, " Steve says, getting up and walking towards the bathroom. He's naked.

"You gave a really cute butt, you know?"

"Don't catcall me!"

"Don't wake me up at 5:30, then," he says, laughing. He rubs his eyes with his hands. His two hands. As in, his two flesh and blood hands.

Of course.

Of course he's dreaming.

In a flash of red, the room is washed away, and James wakes up with a jolt. Around him, the warehouse is quiet and cold and empty. His metal fingers brush against his lips, where the ghost of a kiss lies still. Despite himself, he smiles.

 

* * *

 

"He's here. I saw him last night," he tells Natasha. "I found him in front of our old house."

"Did he see you?" she asks without missing a beat.

"We spoke. Before he ran away, anyway," he answers. _He kissed me._ "He called you Natalia."

"That's my name."

"He called himself James."

"That's _his_ name."

"He hates that name. Or he used to, anyway."

"That's the point," she explains. "I don't think he knows who he is, yet."

"Do you?" he asks her. "Do you know who he is?"

"I haven't seen him in years, and all that time he was under Hydra's influence, as so was I," she says. She's looking straight into his eyes. "And the last time I saw him before D.C.— well, I already told you how well that went. So no, I don't think I know him at all."

"Hey, he shot me in the stomach too. Don't take it too personally."

She doesn't laugh. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Is it one of those I'll answer even by not answering?"

"Sort of," she says. "That day on the Helicarrier, what would you have done if he hadn't recognised you?"

He doesn't have an answer to that. He hadn't even—

"You hadn't even thought about that possibility, had you?" she says. "God, how did you even survive the War?"

"I didn't."

"Why was that?" she asks. "I mean, crashing a plane into the ocean is not that hard — I know that for a fact — and I'm sure there were parachutes on board, so there must've been a reason why you decided to go down with it."

"I suppose I don't have to answer that, do I?"

"You're infuriating," she says. "You know that, right?"

 

* * *

 

He's in a library in New York, but it's nothing like the one in Bucharest. It's too new, too big, too bright, and there isn't a single speck of dust to be seen. But there are books, so he takes one and tries to empty his head from all the thoughts swarming in it.

 _Some say the world will end in fire,_  
Some say in ice.  
From what I’ve tasted of desire  
I hold with those who favor fire.  
But if it had to perish twice,  
I think I know enough of hate  
To say that for destruction ice  
Is also great  
And would suffice.

"You come here a lot?" someone asks, words marked by a thick East European accent.

James looks up to see a woman looking back at him from the other side of the table. He could have sworn she wasn't there a moment ago. She's young and very beautiful — that kind of beautiful that usually masks a deadly poison: her hair is dark and curly, and her eyes big and brown and glimmering. Something about her reminds him of oranges and centuries-old stories.

"It's the first time," he says, looking around. The two of them are the only people left in the library. Even the librarian seems to have disappeared. He's probably on a break.

"What have you lost?" she asks, setting her book down.

"Who said I lost anything?"

"Why would you be here if you weren't looking for something?"

He thinks for a second. "What have _you_ lost?"

"Myself."

"Me too," he says. "I'm looking for myself too."

"I can see that."

"What?"

"I mean, it's not every day I meet someone with a mind as interesting as yours," she says. "So many names, so many people — the big man once small, the woman who isn't really a ballerina, the doctor who gave you your arm and took away your freedom. All the violence and anger and pain, all that regret..."

"What do you know about that?" he asks, getting up so suddenly the chair he was sitting on ends up hitting the bookshelf behind him. "How do know about that?"

The woman gets up as well, walking around the table towards him. "It's not about what I know, or how I know it, James. It's about what I see." Her eyes turn red, and as she moves her hand through the air, a halo of the same colour surrounds them. "You've lost many things, but, maybe, one I can give you back."

"What—"

"Shhh, close your eyes, now."

"Why?"

"Just trust me. It'll be worth it, I swear," she says. "Just let me see."

In the darkness, James sees himself seventy years ago, lying down in his cot at Camp McCoy, and then standing in his apartment in Brooklyn as he gives Steve a box and his heart. He hears Sarah Rogers repeating the promise over and over again, and his voice joining hers. He sees himself trapped in Austria, and then crying in a German forest. He sees Steve asking him the most important question in the universe, and sees himself failing to answer and then falling down, down, down...

"You can look, now," the woman says.

James opens his eyes to see a million threads of crimson light appear from this air. The woman is using her fingers to weave them into a circle, making it smaller and smaller until seemingly disappears in the palm of her hand. She offers the object to James, and then—

He wakes up with his head resting on the wooden table. There's no sign of the girl, but the librarian is giving him a weird look from where he's sitting behind his desk. It was all a dream, again. He must've—

His heart jumps when he sees it, or even before, maybe, when he feels the metal against his skin: small, golden, lost to the snow a long time ago with his left arm, and now wrapped around his finger. It's impossible, but it's his mom's ring, he's sure of it. He can feel it.

He laughs. He just laughs, for the first time in God knows how long.

 

* * *

 

The pencil slides across the paper, tracing shapes seared deep into Steve's memory.

He starts with the hands: one flesh and bones, the other metal he felt against his stomach and against his jaw. Before, when blood flowed in both of them, they squeezed Steve's shoulder, or patted his back. Later, they moved to squeeze the handle of a rifle, finger always ready to press the trigger. They stayed there for a long, long time. How much blood marks those hands? And yet, how tender is their touch?

He moves on to the lips. He's dreamed of them for so long — dreamed of kissing them, of the words they could release, of the things they could do — and yet he was surprised to learn their taste, even if they tasted like the only thing they could taste of: Bucky — that unique composition of smells and flavours and sounds that are Bucky. He draws them curved into a secret smile, like an inside joke, meant to be understood only by a few.

He almost gives up when he gets to the eyes. How could he capture them? How could he portray the anger they hide? And the kindness, the joy, the sadness? How could he ever be able to even come close to their complexity? He stares at the page for a while, before surrendering to his instincts. He remembers a scrawny kid chasing a ball made of newspaper down the road, and looking into those eyes as that kid, now a young man, squeezed his hand as he received the last rites for what must have been his third time that year. He remembers the muzzle falling and his lips moving before he could even think, and he remembers those same eyes looking into his soul just before he fell from the Helicarrier.

"It's beautiful," Sam says. Steve was so immersed in his drawing that he didn't hear him getting close.

"He is." As soon as he utters these words, he feels their weight on his chest. Some time ago, they would have cost him, but now... now they're all he can think of saying.

"All the girls in my school had a crush on him, you know? And some of the boys too, I imagine," Sam says, sitting down next to him. "Steel blue eyes, the pouting, the tragic ending... I can't really blame them."

"What about you? Who did you have a crush on?"

"Are you kidding? Gabe Jones, of course. And Peggy Carter, but everyone has a crush on Peggy Carter."

"Tell me about it," Steve says, getting a laugh out of Sam. "He didn't always pout, you know? There was a time when he was happy, if happy is the right word for it."

"Were you? Happy, I mean. Are you now?"

"I don't know," he says. "I mean, I didn't think I was at the time — it was the Great Depression, and I was never more than a few weeks away from dying, but he was there, and it wasn't the war."

"But he's here now, you've never been healthier, and there's no war keeping you apart."

"But what he's been through—"

"What he's been through is terrible, and so is what you've been through. But you're both here now, a hundred years after you were born," Sam says. "Not a lot of people get second chances, you know?"

 

* * *

 

James waits, like he's waited many times before — perfectly still, perfectly silent. He's sitting on an armchair opposite the front door, and in the darkness, he almost reaches for a gun he doesn't have. As he waits, he tries to imagine all the ways this could go. Killing is easy, or at least it's always been easy for him, but talking...

Outside, he hears the elevator opening and closing, and the noise of heels on the hardwood floor. The front door opens, and Pepper Potts appears in the room, followed by Tony Stark. She's wearing a long red dress, he a designer suit which has clearly seen better days. As soon as they see him, they stop moving, or talking, or breathing.

"Is he—" Potts begins.

"Yes," Stark answers. He looks like his father but... softer?

"How did he get in here?" she asks. "How did get into the Tower?"

"I let him in."

"Why?

"I knew he was in New York, I figured he'd want to talk, sooner or later, and that he'd try to break in, anyway," he explains. "Would you leave us alone, please?"

She's hesitant, but nods. "Should I call Nat? Or Steve?"

"No need," he tells her. "JARVIS's watching, anyway."

After she leaves, Stark plunges into the sofa next to James. He's already taken his jacket off, and starts undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. The lights are still off, making the blue circle in the middle of his chest look even brighter.

"So..." he starts.

"I killed your parents."

"Straight to the point, then, okay," he says. "Cap told me everything, and I read the files. I know it was Hydra—"

"They gave the order, but it was my rifle, my hands."

"Do you blame your rifle? Or your hands?" he asks. James already knows where this is going. "You didn't have a choice."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Stark says. "You were their weapon, they used you to kill their enemies. My parents were their enemies — I'm proud of that — and so Hydra killed them. Hydra, not you."

"I remember it."

"Listen, I can't even begin to comprehend all the shit you went through, and I'm a pretty imaginative guy," he says. "But you have to tell me what you want from me. Penance? Punishment? You owe me nothing, you owe the world nothing. If I were you— I don't even know what I'd do if I were you. Maybe I'd be blaming myself too. But if that means anything, is that it's probably the wrong thing to do."

Before James can say anything, Stark gets up.

"Now, I'm pretty drunk at the moment, and I'm sure you're tired too," he says. "Plus, my girlfriend has been waiting outside all this time, and you do not want to piss her off, believe me. So, take this." He gives James a magnetic card he produced from a drawer. "It opens the fifth floor, just below Cap. It's all yours. Take a shower, sleep, play video games all night, whatever suits you."

"You're letting me stay here?"

"What? Did you think I'd let you out of the Tower without taking a look at that arm of yours?" he asks with a smile on his face. "See you in the morning. Or late afternoon — it's been a long day."

 

* * *

 

_This is a promise forged in my heart and quenched in my soul.  
Guard it inside you, and I shall forever be safe._

 

* * *

 

The last time someone knocked on Steve's door this early in the morning, a guy wearing a fishbowl on his head was running around Queens terrorising pedestrians. The time before that, an idiot dressed as a torero tried to steal a crown he thought was magic or cursed or possibly both. The time before that, Clint had gotten so drunk he forgot how to get to his own apartment (literally just one floor above), and ended up crying because he wanted to show Steve the picture of a cute dog, but couldn't find it on his phone. That's why this time, as he opens the door, Steve isn't expecting anything good.

What he isn't expecting for sure is to find B— James on the other side of it, wearing pajamas and looking eerily small for a 6-foot-tall man with a metal arm. He even has bed hair.

"Did you sleep here last night?" is the first thing he says, because of course it is. Idiot.

"Stark let me stay, but I wanted to... em... talk to you, I guess."

"Yeah, sure. I—"

Before Steve can say anything more, James is on him, arms tight around his torso and head buried in the crook of his neck. After the initial surprise, Steve hugs him back. Under his hands, he registers all the ways James' body has changed. He wonders what scars his clothes are hiding, and what kind of stories they have to tell.

"I've missed you," he says.

"Me too," James says, pulling away. "Even when I didn't know who you were, I missed you."

Steve's throat is full of things he wants to say, but he doesn't seem to be able to find the words. Maybe there aren't enough of them to express what he's feeling. He moves his hands along the length of James' arm, down until he finds the other man's own hands.

One is warm, the other cold, but there's metal on both of them.

"What's this?" he asks, looking down to see a golden band wrapped around James' right ring finger.

"The same as this," James tells him, pointing to the ring hanging from the chain around Steve's neck. "A red witch gave it back to me in a dream."

"A red witch, like the one from your mom's story?"

"That was the Red King, you punk."

They both laugh, and then they're kissing, biting into each other's lips, and then smiling and laughing and kissing again, tasting and feeling what they had dared only to dream.

"This is my answer," James says, a whisper as loud as thunder. "This is what I couldn't tell you all that time ago."

And really, he's right. They don't need words or lengthy declarations. They've both fallen for each other and died for each other and saved each other so many times that all they've left to do is to have each other, finally, completely.

They stumble through the apartment and into the bedroom, shedding their clothes as they kiss and touch and discover all the ways time has changed them. Steve was right: there are many new scars all across James' back and across his chest and there where his metal arm is attached to his shoulder. He wants to know them all, and love them all, and touch and kiss them all until James loves them too.

"Have you ever done this before?" James asks.

"Yes."

"With a man?"

"Yes."

"At least one of us knows what he's doing, then."

It's easy. It's all so easy that it's a wonder it was ever hard, like something they should have done years ago, but also like something that had to happen now, here, like this. It's like chains breaking and forest burning and the face of God himself staring into their eyes. Like oranges and sugar and all those other things they craved as children. Like water in the desert and fire in the winter and earth surrounding their bodies like a loving mother. Like wind, wild and untamed, sweeping them away like leaves in a hurricane. It's quiet, and loud, and _theirs_. Only theirs.

"What are you thinking about?" Steve asks afterwards, when they're lying on the bed and the world outside is just waking up.

"What happens when the world finds out Bucky Barnes is alive?"

"I thought you wanted to be called James."

"I _am_ James," he says, turning to face him. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone's always called me Bucky. _You_ 've always called me Bucky."

"Are you okay with that?"

"I think so, yeah. I love it," he says. And then, more serious, "I love _you_. Always have, always will, I think."

"I love you too, Bucky," Steve says. "I can't remember a time I didn't love you."

"That's really cheesy."

"I'm fine with that."

"Me too." Bucky's smiling, really smiling, with his face and his eyes and his whole body. He's smiling. "But—"

"I don't like buts."

"Really? Could've fooled me!"

"Oh my God," Steve says, covering his face with his hands. He's definitely not blushing. "I can't believe I waited seventy years for _this_."

"I can't believe I waited this long either," Bucky says, giving him a peck on the lips, just for the Hell of it. "I should have told you everything the day I gave you that ring."

"We're here now, though," Steve says, taking Bucky into his arms. The other man rests his head on his chest, and Steve caresses his hair. "We're together now, and living in a time when we can really be together. Sure, the road to get here wasn't the easiest, not at all, but we're here."

"We should make the best of it, then."

"We've already begun, haven't we?"

Bucky nods. "They'll come for me, though," he says. "Not Hydra, but... people, I guess. I can't hide forever, and as soon as they find out I'm alive, and what Hydra made me do, they'll hold me responsible. What happens then?"

"We fight, like we always have," Steve says, kissing Bucky's head. "Till the end of the line."

"Till the end of the line."

 

* * *

 

_This is my wedding vow to you.  
This is the marriage of equals._

 

* * *

 

A kiss on the forehead.

"Wake up, jerk," Steve says, his voice soft and warm and close. "I can't believe we fell asleep."

Bucky lets out a moan and stretches on the bed. "What time is it?" he asks between a yawn and the other.

"Late."

"How late?"

"Late enough that Tony's awake. He said you promised him to let him look at your arm. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," he says, finally opening his eyes. Everything is white, for a second. "Just give me a moment."

"I'll go get a shower, then," Steve says, getting up and walking towards the bathroom. He's naked.

"You have a really cute butt, you know?"

"You too," Steve calls back. "And by the way, you're invited."

"Where?"

"To the shower."

Bucky laughs. He rubs his eyes with his hands. His two hands, one all metal, the other all flesh, but with one important piece of metal on it.

It's like a hundred voices are softly whispering into his ear: pride, for how far he's come; thrill, for all the things that have yet to come; sorrow, like an old friend, for the days that he can't afford to forget. There's a new voice too, or maybe it's not new at all: it's warm and fuzzy and beats fast inside his chest. Happiness, he thinks that one's called.

Hard days are coming, they always are, but today doesn't have to be one of them. Today, or even just right now, this instant, can be good, if he lets it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed reading this fic, please consider reblogging it on [tumblr](http://florencedrunk.tumblr.com/post/160726973452/and-the-honeycomb-will-taste-sweeter-coming-from)!
> 
> \- Colorblind!Steve is one of my favourite headcanons, which I've explored more in detail [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397730).
> 
> \- This story takes place after CA:TWS, a therefore after The Dark World, so, as far as Thor is concerned, Loki died saving him from the Dark Elves. 
> 
> \- The story Bucky reads in the library and later recites in the cemetery is the same one he whispers to himself in the first chapter. It's called *The Red King and the Witch*, and you can read it [here](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/roma/gft/gft074.htm).
> 
> \- The poem [*Fire and Ice*](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44263/fire-and-ice) by Robert Frost not only inspired George R. R. Martin's *A Song of Ice and Fire*, but also happens to be the epigraph of Stephanie Meyer's *Eclipse*. I like to think this last book is the one Bucky reads it from. I don't know, I find this kind of stuff funny. 
> 
> \- I sort of have an idea for Wanda in this universe, which I might explore sooner or later. But, just to clarify, her powers do not come from either the X-Gene or Loki's Scepter.
> 
> \- I shan't rest until I have a movie version of Mysterio.
> 
> \- The other guy mentioned in Steve's last bit is The Matador, one of Marvel's worst villains ever, who in the Golden Age fought Captain America and Bucky... who were not Steve and Bucky, at that point.


End file.
